Actress Celia Imrie (Bridget Jones's Diary, Star Wars: Episode I, The Nanny McPhee), recently wrote an article for the Daily Mail narrating his nightmare at the hands of a psychologist MK-Ultra .
Living as an actress is like living life on a circus trapeze. Every time you jump, you have to wait the time it reaches another swinging trapeze on your way.
I've been lucky. So far ranging and have been maintained over the years I've had more than a fair share of roles on stage and television, including Upstairs Downstairs, The Darling Buds Of May, Dinnerladies, Acorn Antiques and Cranford.
Then there are the movies, to my surprise, I have a reputation quite brazen. After Calendar Girls, people might think of myself as an exhibitionist. I'm not.
In fact, the scene where we had to take our clothes were of great concern. An actress was shot at a time - and it was for my bad lucky to be called before Helen Mirren, Julie Walters and the rest of the wonderful cast.
I came to the studio was pretty bad. It was like being in a horrible dream, diambulando through molasses. With a heart of thunder, grabbing my coat around, I went to the set. I tried to imagine that somehow I was not really taking off my clothes and that, anyway, no one would see the film. How wrong I was, even with some strategically placed cakes preserving my modesty.
There was nothing discreet on my part in Nanny McPhee either. Before its release, the film was shown to a sample audience of children and they were frightened to see my non-surgical breast.
The study found that there was nothing else to about it but to carry out a large percentage of my division - a move that cost the production company £ 150,000.
is hard to believe, but as a child dreamed of becoming a ballet dancer. While the other girls fainted by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, I love to Rudolf Nureyev and Isadora Duncan.
was a longing that was almost brings me to the grave before I turn 15 years - not that I had no idea at that time. Thoroughly studied ballet books and magazines and practiced whenever he could. Going to be a dancer.
My mother Diana was an aristocrat "trueblue", a descendant of William the Conqueror and the list of nobility of Burke. My father David, a poor Scottish family, was a doctor.
I pressed them to let me attend classes in ballet, to which they agreed. Always stubborn and willful, I had my career planned. I would go to White Lodge, the young branch of the Royal Ballet School in Richmond, south-west London, and serve some time in the choir before being discovered, finally, dancing in the arms of Nureyev, who and probably will like to marry me.
and was practiced by every consideration, advancing through the ranks until I was good enough for my teachers sent me, at age 11, to audition for a place at the Royal Ballet School.
at home anxiously waiting the results arrive, I longed for the day I moved away from our home in Surrey to start my new life as a student of ballet. One week. Two weeks. One month. But the letter never arrived. I knew something was wrong, and he was looking for her, broke into the office of my mother. There it was.
Celia and Corinne Perigo in the hit television
The Darling Buds of May.
Trembling, slid open the letter and its envelope and read the fateful words: "Celia is very good and advanced for his age, but unfortunately it will be too" big "to become a dancer.
Too big? I was devastated. Surely this could not be true? Okay, so it might be too big right now, but I had seen ads in newspapers diet. Surely if you work hard enough and did not eat, I would be thin enough for all the judges of the Royal Ballet School, fattened themselves - eating their words.
For 18 months I lost an impressive amount of weight. Was noted for the first time in six months for our nanny, known as Pop, when we had to put the summer clothes for our annual family holiday near Bognor Regis, West Sussex. After that I realized I was being watched during meals.
I looked in the mirror and, although it was close to a skeleton, no thought had gone too far. In desperation, and I sure with a little shame - my father was an eminent doctor - my parents brought a child psychologist.
I mean, 5 feet 2 inches and weighed 56 pounds. What was the problem? Why do not I could eat?
In those days there was excess food there now. People ate three meals a day very little if they were lucky, not eating any international media.
Many people in those days were undernourished, but not by choice. So it was a mystery to the experts to find someone who had decided not to eat, just as it could have been to find someone who was obese.
I sent a brief period in the local hospital, where, puzzled by a condition that had not seen before, the staff just gave me three meals a day, which I refused politely. After a few weeks, I was released to spend Christmas with my family.
I was happy to go home, but, far from being healed, I knew that in the future should find the best way to avoid eating. I became good at it. I've worked on all media to provide food. I suddenly was so successful that only a corpse skin.
Desperate, my parents decided to send me away to St Thomas Hospital in London to enter one of the Extraordinary Chambers within the Department of Psychological Medicine. Once there I was put under the care of world-renowned psychiatrist William Sergeant. I was 14.
Now, more than 20 years after his death, the sergeant is known for his work for MI5 and the CIA, particularly in the covert mind control program MK-ULTRA.
Brusco and cold: Psychologist William Sergeant
therapy using electro-shocks in patients
Even then, the sergeant was a world expert on brainwashing. Today his books are said to be studied by Al Qaeda. His work has links with the mysterious death of CIA agent biochemist Frank Olson after receiving LSD, the slaughter of Jonestown in Guyana, where 900 people took their own lives, and mental drug testing in involuntary guinea pigs in center Research Porton Down in Wiltshire.
Sergeant methods were simple: shock treatment and insulin-induced comas that lead to continuous narcosis, or deep sleep therapy, with audio tapes brainwashing orders are reproducing in patients under the pillow. And to think it all came free on the NHS!
The hospital building is still there and still a chill runs through me when it crossed me on my way to Waterloo station, the Imax movie or the National Theatre. It is a bleak building, red brick, dark green ceramic tile and white, the letters are saying that is the Royal Hospital Waterloo for children and women, but now houses the Schiller International University, a private American university.
From outside the Imax you can see the window where I sat waiting for my mother for leaving Waterloo station, running frantically across the road. It was the only one that came to me and often wondered if anyone else in the family did not even know about your visits desperate. After all, I was the black sheep of the family.
At 14, I was the youngest in the hospital. Most of the other patients was middle-aged women suffering from depression. From my bed, looked howling, moaning and screaming, fighting with the nurses. I thought: 'Do not want to end up crazy. I have to get out of here. "
Doctors and nurses made their daily rounds. Twice a week ago we were treated by the same great man.
Sergeant still figures in my nightmares. It was sharp and cold, and he never spoke directly with one. Instead, give orders over his head, spoke of "this" and "that." But that was preferable to make eye contact with this proud man, with dark eyes incorrigible. I've only seen eyes like that in a couple of other people in my life.
After the sergeant left the room, the nurses started to prepare the horrors he had prescribed for the day - electro-convulsive therapy. Some friends have asked me how it was to have electrodes on each side of the skull before the great streams of energy shot through his brain, as I struggled, shouted, moaned and retocias you with the pillow. But the truth is I do not agree.
I, however, I vividly remember seeing the woman in the bed next to me when it was his turn to be attacked in the name of health. I remember every sign, sound and smell. The huge rubber stopper stuck between the teeth, the strange cry almost in silence, like a sigh of grief, the contortions and sharp turns tormented body shivering, the smell of burning hair and flesh.
I also remember the famous Narcosis Chamber, a room where patients were caught in a drug induced sleep for days, while tapes of the instructions are reproduced below the pillow.
I've always wondered about the Board of Narcosis, I can describe it perfectly. I used to peek into the room through the door knob, and look at women looking for dead on the floor, on mattresses gray and silent in a sort of twilight electrically induced.
When people ask if I've ever spent time inside, would answer "No" because I did not remember that ever happened.
But recently it occurred to me that the whole world to enter the room Narcosis in the first place is high and although I have seen many women returning from the room, I never saw any patients out of the place has raised . You enter and exit asleep asleep.
I do not think anyone who was treated with sleep therapy Sergeant was at all times aware of entering or leaving the room. Inside, they were totally unaware. So maybe I was in the room of Narcosis. I could not know.
likely, I realize now que podría haber estado ahí. Me inyectaron con enormes dosis de insulina. Estas inyecciones se entienden ahora como uno de los métodos de Sargant para poner en marcha su proceso de dopamiento.
No puedo saber si sus métodos de control mental funcionaron en mí como yo tampoco sé lo que las grabaciones de la cinta debajo de mi almohada me decían.
Hace algunos años, traté de encontrar mi registros de los hospitales, para ver si podía averiguar los límites de mi tratamiento y si yo hubiera estado en la habitación de narcosis. Yo quería saber las instrucciones exactas de la cinta constantemente reproduciendo bajo mi almohada, los deseos de Sergeant drumming incessantly in my young brain, unconscious.
Unfortunately, my search was in vain. When the sergeant stopped St. Thomas, illegally took all the records of their patients. At the time of his death in 1988, every piece of documentation on the inhumane treatment towards us, the human guinea pigs had been destroyed. So we will never know the absolute truth.
I remember that massive doses are given, three cups a day, Largactil, an anti-psychotic drug. The effect of this drug was amazing. My hands shook uncontrollably for most of the day and I woke up to find lots of hair on the pillow. But the worst consequence was that all I saw was multiplied by four. When Sergeant entered the room, as he saw four. It was horrible and frightening. Even simple tasks like taking a glass of water became impossible. The drugs I had become a victim.
As we increased the dose a day, I heard a nurse that I was showing a "dangerous resistance to drugs. Dangerous to whom, I wonder? Who could say in that terrible place that was really crazy workers rather than patients.
Sergeant used to say that every dog has his breaking point - the eccentric took more time. I guess my 'hazardous resistance "was what he was talking about. I like to think I was one of those eccentric dogs that did not break.
Many years later, I went with friends to see a movie called coma . It was a thriller starring Michael Douglas and Genevieve Bujold, in which Bujold discover a room full of patients in hammocks suspended in drug-induced coma. When we go out in Leicester Square in London, my friends laughed at the stupidity of the plot , but I began to tremble involuntarily and I took a few days to recuperate.
They probably thought I was getting depressed about something. In fact, it was not until years later I saw the link and I realized why the film had upset me deeply.
Sergeant Whatever might have thought, my eventual cure had nothing to do with him or his bizarre techniques. The events that saved me from my self-induced anorexia occurred in a very simple.
Two things happened in quick succession. First, a nurse, very inappropriate, she said one morning: "Do you realize that your selfish act of starvation is stealing the bed of a real a child sick or possibly dying? "She described other affected children she had treated - those who had polio and cancer.
had no idea, but what he said was more powerful than either insulin injections Sergeant and therapy tapes. My mind was fine and very lucid.
few days later, my dance teacher came to visit. I did not know the real reason to start. Miss Hawkesworth was told that my medical opinion was consistent weight was far below what could sustain life for long. I do not survive more than a couple of weeks Christmas.
Unlike those good people who walked on tiptoe around the subject of illness and death, Miss Hawkesworth said: "I've come to visit because they told me you were going to die in two weeks and thought I should say goodbye. "
had spent three years and everyone told me, 'You gotta eat. You will eat. If you do not eat fade. Please eat. Coma. Coma. "And so I did not do. Now, here was a new order -" You're gonna die! "How dare anyone tell me what to do. I was not going to die just to please them.
WheneverI am under an absolute command, my instinct has always been the same: to do otherwise. And thanks to Miss Hawkesworth, I decided there that do not obey these terrible gods, self-appointed in psychiatry and die just to satisfy their theories. Gradually, I began to eat.
I reversed the action that had been my secret weapon against them, became my new secret weapon against them. I decided to show them that he knew nothing about me. Also, I would not let anyone think that my selfishness was responsible for depriving a sick child for treatment.later returned to school, something changed in appearance. During a consultation with my psychiatrist, I wonder if I would like to have a baby one day, and hoped that even possible, because I had disrupted the normal order of puberty.
Specialists in St Thomas decided to give me a massive dose of estrogen to revive the process. The problem was that most of the night that I was sent to be "flashed" to a cup duplicate 38in.
So, I looked like a brunette teen version of Jayne Mansfield in a fright wig, take my O-levels and had the same number as the Princess Diana (may ask if so interested).
I left school the day I turned 16, the first day they could legally. Determined to pursue a life on stage, preferably with some connection to the dance, I applied and won a place in the local drama school. I was on my way.
Years later I was talking to the wife of actor Nicholas Lyndhurst, Lucy. She had trained and become a professional dancer, even appearing with the Royal Ballet.
"Much of it was hell," he said. "Not at all what I had thought it would. Often I was very unhappy."
She described the conflict and tension, muscle pain, blood in the toes, rivalry and starvation diets. For the first time in my life I wondered if I was lucky to be forced out of dance and induced to acting.
I felt a tremendous wave of relief. I began to wonder what had prompted me to pursue a desire that almost killed me at 14. Now at last I knew my life had gone the right way.
Source Daily Mail translated
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